Trad Magazine Season One Yearbook by tradmagazine

TRAD magazine

tradition lives here.

SEASON ONE YEARBOOK

JULY 2020 - APRIL 2021 | tradmag.ca

CONTRIBUTORS

tradition lives here.

TRADITION ODOGWU IBEZIMAKO

JOY & REBELLION

THE WINECARRYING

AKILAH WALCOTT

TRANSPORTING MYTHOLOGY

WHEN SETTLERS DREW MAPS OF THE KATANGA REGION, THE LUBA WERE SPEAKING IN TONGUES

REINA COWAN

YANNICK MUTOMBO

MIRABELLE HARRIS-EZE WHERE DOES A LOST LANGUAGE GO? REBECCA SEWARD LANGDON

DINE WITH ME

WITHOUT WATER NO LIFE

OLA IDRIS

SUN SHEIKH HUSSEIN

AWAITED ANGELO GRANT

A CASE FOR REPARATIONS IN THE CARIBBEAN KADEN LASHLEY

COLOURBLIND HEALTHCARE

KUNYURWA

WHEN THE MONUMENTS FALL

KAYONNE CHRISTY

HOW KABAKA UNCOVERED AN ALTERNATE CURRICULUM OF CONSCIOUSNESS ODOGWU IBEZIMAKO

CELINE ISIMBI

BAYLEY ESTEVES

ARTWORK COVER ART • SONIA LEUNG JOY & REBELLION • NABRA BADR THE WINECARRYING • NABRA BADR WHERE DOES A LOST LANGUAGE GO? • NABRA BADR TRANSPORTING MYTHOLOGY • NABRA BADR WHEN SETTLERS DREW MAPS OF THE KATANGA REGION • SARAH NUZUM DINE WITH ME • SARAH NUZUM WITHOUT WATER NO LIFE • NADA ELNAIEM AWAITED • EFE OSAZUWA COLOURBLIND HEALTHCARE • SARAH NUZUM KUNYURWA • DJ GOMEZ WHEN THE MONUMENTS FALL • ROMEO LUH A CASE FOR REPARATIONS IN THE CARIBBEAN • EFE OSAZUWA POETRY & JUSTICE • KUMMY SALIU

JULY 2020 - AUGUST 2021 | tradmag.ca

TRADITION WHAT SHOULD WE DO WITH OUR CULTURAL PAST ? ODOGWU IBEZIMAKO There is very little that is traditional about tradition or modern about modernity. Both categories are deeply related to each other. Societies that are characterized as traditional inherit ideas, beliefs, and institutions from their past and are never culturally static. Traditions are socially inherited ideas, beliefs, institutions, rituals, principles and practices that organize thought and action. They are embedded so deeply into the contours of any society that they are not visible to an untrained eye, yet they organize the texture of our lives.

tradition lives here.

What should we do with our cultural past? There are a range of responses to this, but ultimately they fall into two camps; revivalist and anti-revivalist. Anti-revivalists want to keep the past in the past. They want Indigenous intuitions, practices, and ideas that have survived colonization to be dismantled and erased. They argue that you must abandon any Indigenous cultural ethic, because this ethic has already been defeated through colonial conquest. For them, if two societies were to come into contact, and one triumphs, then surely the cultures of the triumphant must be cultivated by the subjugated. They argue that it is in the best interest of the subjugated groups to “catch up” with advanced industrial societies and to do so, they must abandon their cultural heritage, which they perceive to be pre-scientific.

Redemption Theologists believe that inheriting the mentality of former colonial governors makes the African a subservient global citizen. They are dissatisfied with the acceptance of alien cultural values and believe only a freedom of the mind will heal such a society from the corrupting influences of forced modernity. You will hear them sing “Emancipate yourself from mental slavery, none but ourselves, can free our minds!” Dr Munyaradzi Mawere and Dr. Chika Ezeanya-Esiobu are contemporary scholars in the Indigenous Knowledge school. They leverage knowledge systems, spirituality and technologies to fashion a future built on a knowable traditional African way. They look to revitalize Indigenous Knowledge Systems (IKS) for Africa’s development. They believe African Indigenous knowledge systems should be the basis of development in the modern world and Indigenous resources and traditions should be harnessed to meet modern goals.

Revivalist fall under several sub categories. Cultural revivalists look to their cultural past for a sense of cultural pride and identity. They draw from cultural products to call for cultural unity and use these cultural products to form the basis for an authentic and original contribution to global culture.

Julius Nyere was the founding father of Tanzania and was one of the Nation Builders tasked with creating a modern African State. He drew upon what he saw as similarities between the many sub-ethnic nationalities of the Tanzanian people to form one national identity and national ethic.

Nyerere used Ujamaa as the basis for a national development project. Julius Nyere through the Ujama political philosophy looked to build on what he saw as a consistent principle in the cultural life of the cultures of the region – communitarianism. He translated the Ujamaa concept into a political-economic management model through the cultivation of a national cultural identity and the engendering of a self-reliant cultural ethic. The Ujama project is championed as a model for African nation building and national policy by revivalists, and considered to be a prime example of the limitations of the Indigenous African cultures by anti-revivalists. Taking Anti-revivalists seriously. Anti-revivalists ask an important question; why should you continue with a culture that was defeated and subjugated through colonization? Is the way of the victor not a superior way ? There continues to be a lingering shame and a lack of self-confidence felt by many peoples of formerly colonized world regions. This shame becomes institutionalized through education, religion, popular culture, and through national institutions. On this, Michael Manley, the fourth prime Minister of Jamaica writes “… post-colonial societies must accomplish two things if they are to re-establish self-confidence and re-embark upon the process of self-discovery. They must rediscover the validity of their own culture at the moment of the colonial intervention and retrace the steps that had led through history to that point. And they must establish within a frame of reality, the culture which colonialism imposed upon them so that this may loom neither larger nor smaller than it deserves and suffer from none of the distortion which can result from the ambivalence of a ruler-subject situation” “It is pointless to either over-rate or under-rate the accomplishments of Western civilization. It has produced dazzling technology and a persistent capacity for self-destruction. It has produced the most articuular

late philosophy in recorded history and a rapidly dissolving moral foundation for social organization. It has produced spectacular productive capacity and a chronic inability to share the benefits of production equitably. Clearly there is no cause for alarm and hysteria here. The good and the evil, the success and the failures are nicely balanced, and compare neither favorable nor unfavorable with any other human experience..” Michael Manley – The politics of change: A Jamaican testament Ultimately, both revivalist and anti-revivalist traditions have limitations. Revivalists fall into a trap of looking to the past with nostalgia and romanticism and anti-revivalist see no place for tradition in a modern context. Tradition Traditions exist to serve people, and not the other way around. They emerge out of historical necessity and circumstance and exist to assist people in interpreting and organizing their world and solving the challenges they face in it. Once tradition fail to do this, its authority erodes. Secondly, It would be difficult to consider any culture or tradition as purely an indigenous one. A group may claim a tradition as their own, but this does not guarantee that the cultural products were originated by those people, nor is it to imply that a particular set of ideas or values is necessarily distinct from a people. Cultural exchange, appropriation and borrowing make clear that traditions have widespread roots. Ideas, values and institutions, emerge from one culture, but are fully available to all peoples, at all times. Kwame Gyeke writes, “A particular cultural creation will thus have two faces, a particular face, when the appreciation of the cultural creation is confined to its local origin, and a potentially universal face, when the appreciation transcends the border of the environment that created it.” Kwame Gyeke, Tradition and Modernity

Such cultural products are there for the taking by those who may consider it worthwhile to adopt them.

tradition lives here.

For a cultural product to be accepted a present generation will have to convince itself that it is satisfied with the tradition it has inherited and this tradition is useful in interpreting their world and continues to solve problems that arise in it. They will have to evaluate the values, practices, intuitions, morality, and rationality of this tradition, and consider if they are adequate to justify the realities of the time. Between generations, it is possible that older belief systems lose their moral underpinning or credibility, and the traditions that arose from them are reconstructed or erased. Ultimately, traditions exist to be a tool to help organize, explain, and solve problems that emerge in the world. They may not be invoked to solve the same problems, but to be used to build confidence, self-efficacy, and agency in communities. It is through this refinement that cultural products and practices are imbibed with new life and traditions are sustained through generations.

JOY & REBELLION AKILAH WALCOTT

Picture the sound of rebellion. Is it a man with paint on his face and a sword in his hand charging at an enemy? Is it a voice lifted in song? Is there a woman, gyrating clothed in masquerade? Rebellion does not always sound like the clash of the steel of swords. Sometimes it sounds like the clash of a steel pan. It is not always a civil war, it is also an uncivil Carnival. For me, rebellion was to hold injustice by the throat and rejoice in its cries for mercy. That was until I searched within my own understanding of celebration to reveal the power it held, and still holds for our people. Carnival has taught me that sheer power of joyous expression can be its own kind of rebellion.

NABRA BADR

tradition lives here.

“The Jamette Carnival of the masses has now been pushed to the fringes, relegated almost to mere nuisance value, the nostalgia of traditional characters of bats, dragons and devils, and the rare appearances of steel bands. Carnival today is middle-class, largely feminine, and superficial. What a departure from the supreme days of the Jamette Carnival when every portrayal required intense self-preparation and self-discovery, including specific dance, stance, and speech as well as definition of space. In other words, the fullness of art…” -Bukka Renie

Of all the critiques of Carnival, the one that stings the most, comes from within the community. This feeling (sometimes legitimate) that we have betrayed the ways of our ancestors and sold our freedom festival to the highest bidder. Carnival is critiqued to be a parade of loud music, lewd-dancing, and material garments. This hard dichotomy that says old Carnival was rebellion and the new Carnival is celebration is a simple and false choice. Joy and Rebellion are sisters, and they are always in conversation with each other. Values of celebration and rebellion are deeply embedded in each other. Have you ever wondered what life would have looked like had they decided to stop celebrating? What would our lives look like without Carnival? Carnival was gifted to us by our ancestors and it was revolutionary for paving a pathway to freedom. A freedom that we now inherit. This freedom also means that we can now allow Carnival to be whatever it needs to be for us. The power of expression. Surveilling, policing, and governing the joy of our Afro-Carribean ancestors was a tool used by colonial governors in the Caribbean to exert control. If they let us feel a little joy, and taste how sweet it was, then surely we would want more. Surely, we would want freedom. Governors tried to silence us, to keep us from feeling anything but what they decided for us on any given day. When we were banned from speaking in our native tongues, music became our source of freedom. We sang songs, and they ordered us to be silent. We played drums, and they burned them at our feet. Limiting expression is one way to stifle the human spirit, and they tried. We resisted. We continue to resist. Expression alone could evoke a response so profound it turns society upside down. Instead of surrendering to silence, we started to communicate through song. When we sang, it was about freedom. We sang with quick wit, and melodic tongues. Our songs were the birth of Calypso. A calypso song functioned as the “poor man’s newspaper.” Calypsonians were described as the mouthpiece of our people as they shared the news for the day, and every day the news was our desire for absolute freedom. Calypso was not only born out of rebellion, it was also born out of sheer expression. It was the collective will of our ancestors to keep singing, and creating, despite all that was ripped away. Calypso music is that feel good music, a fusion of jubilation and social consciousness. It evolved from a simple form of expression to a weapon powerful enough to influence political culture in Trinidad. Had they not created a new voice after the old one had been taken away, the pride and spirit of a resilient people would have perished in silence and censorship. Instead they demonstrated resilience in the desire to uplift their own people. This shook colonial governors to the core.

The suppression intensified, and the riots began. The same suppression of expression led to the birth of steel pan music. With the arrival of Canboulay in the post emancipation era, we played in street processions of defiance and liberty, and the resonance of drums and percussion was our soundtrack. Seeking to stifle our expression, and fearing a revolution, the government banned drums and percussion. So we picked up scrap metal, dustbins, soap boxes and bamboo stamping ensembles to replace drums. Through trial, error and experimentation, steel pan was born and persisted as the new creative form. It spread through the Caribbean as bodies trickled down the street covered in mud and broken chains, their spirits carrying a sense of freedom. The steel pan, though a stain to the colonial eyes, was the blood that pumped through the heart of calypso music. Their joy was their rebellion. “Social protest and commentary still remain important ingredients of the calypso as does the praise song celebrating chosen aspects of local culture and life … There can be no Carnival without the calypso and no calypso without the Carnival”

tradition lives here.

(Juneja, 1988:89). Calypso was combined with soul from the Americas to produce Soca music. A sexy cascade of brass arrangements ignited an infectious chorus, one that sung of social unity, peace, and celebration. And with this fusion, the soundtrack of the modern Carnival was born. Their expression through music was so powerful that it paved the way for us to experience the feeling of freedom this music brings. But it was not just the desire for expression alone, it was the persistence that resulted in pure artistic innovation. Imagine if they had set the drums down in defeat. We would never have known the freedom of carnival. Expression is what brought us here. Why stop now? Carnival has not lost its potency, it has only evolved. And perhaps the reason we don’t associate joy and celebration with rebellion is that we have been trained to view rebellion as a sudden violent event. Rebellion is also the rose that grew on concrete. It is the flame that does not die in the storm. It is joy, that will not surrender. Celebration and the need for expression have always been central to the resistance that allowed for freedom. At every attempt possible, oppressive forces tried to destroy and dismantle our culture. Yet, nothing could stifle the spirit of a resilient people. A spirit that was full of joy despite all adversity. Celebration was our protest. It is for this reason that I cannot take celebration for granted. Two hundred years after emancipation, the quest for black liberation goes on. Our shackles have only taken on a different form and we exist only partially free. And yet, though still in bondage, I am more free than my ancestors had been. Carnival was a gift our ancestors gave us to rebel with joy. So why should our expression stop? We can only imagine who our ancestors were, let alone what it was like to live the way they did. Yet we are often asked to justify our actions before them. For them, Carnival was born out of oppression, and celebration was their protest. For us, we let Carnival be whatever it needs to be. So long as it still serves us, its significance is not lost.

How do we honour our cultural past? We should not be afraid of change. Instead, we must explore the ways in which we are still connected. We are all on a common journey to freedom. Freedom may have meant many different things for our ancestors, and also for us. This same freedom means you have the option to learn about the history of the celebration. It means you have the freedom for your celebration to be an act of defiance, or to simply celebrate for personal rejuvenation. This freedom is the great gift they have given us. Celebration can be enough. It is enough. That’s why I love Carnival. That’s why I carry hints of Carnival with me every day. I hear it in the soca tunes that I play in my house during morning chores. It is in the swing of my hips to Machel Montano’s ‘‘All Over.’’ I carry a glorious joy and a fierce rebellion in my smile. Now, when I picture the sound of rebellion, sometimes it is the clash of the steel of swords, sometimes it is the clash of steel on a pan. Sometimes it is the sound of soca on a speaker, sometimes it is the beat of a heart, and sometimes it is a joy so loud, it does not even make a sound.

NABRA BADR

tradition lives here.

MIRABELLE HARRIS-EZE

THE WINECARRYING Mama and Papa Chisom are getting married—again. Or, at last.

Ijay and Julius Okeke’s church wedding concluded two-and-a-half decades ago in a Catholic cathedral in Surulere so resonant that the priest’s voice bounced discordantly off the stained glass windows. Kneeling before the altar in her Diana-inspired gown and tiara, Ijay had wondered if God’s voice sounded the same when He spoke through thunder on Mount Sinai. At least, that’s what Ijay said fifteen years later when Chisom asked what was going through her mind in a particular wedding photo. Chisom was curious. Chisom had always been curious, pulling apart toys, and putting together puzzle pieces, and pulling photo albums off shelves left dusty in the basement to study and contextualize. Ijay did not tell Chisom that her traditional wedding was put on hold when immigration visas came in the mail. She did not tell her that the hold had prolonged because life swallows time, because Chisom came, and Kambili came, and Ugo came, because vision grew blurry and knees grew weak with both stress and age, and later became never. Or perhaps Ijay did not tell Chisom because Chisom was asking about a church wedding in a once-bright photo gone sepia and didn’t even know what a traditional wedding was.

Yet, last year, after Chisom told her parents that her boyfriend, Rutherford St. Claire, proposed, and they made all the right sounds over the phone—Chukwu alụka, Congratulobia, Ị nwaka!— Chisom said, “Mommy, Daddy, I want a traditional wedding. Can we make that happen? I really, really want to do it.” Chisom was marrying a man with a last name for a first name and a girl’s name for a last name. Her husband-to-be was a Haitian-American adopted by oyibos. Like her siblings, Chisom could not speak Igbo, had visited Nigeria thrice, ate eba with a fork, and responded, “Uh, gooood?” to Kedu? And she wanted a traditional wedding. Something in Ijay’s heart soared, something that told her that her failings as a mother were not as plenti plenti as she imagined, and could in fact be tempered, countervailed. Ijay said, “Okay. It will happen.” There is an unspoken rule that the child of a couple that has not celebrated a traditional wedding in full cannot celebrate one of their own. So Mama and Papa Chisom are doing their winecarrying ceremony, at last; they are moving on from the Imego fulfilled 25 years ago to the Igba nkwu. Ijay looks over the crowd gathered in her family compound from the upstairs bathroom window.

tradition lives here.

Behind the bathroom door, her older sister is yelling, “Me osi so! Haba, are you still touching up your powder?” 25 years ago, in this very compound, when Julius had better knees and Ijay had sharper eyes, the Okekes had delivered, amongst other things, six kegs of palm wine, four crates of bottled soft drinks, glossy Ichafu scarves, industrial-sized bags of rice, and a male and female goat. Julius had shown Ijay the Edoji Uruagu bride price list over Point And Kill, and she had shrieked with laughter at the length. “That much? I’m worth that much?” Ijay had watched from the bathroom window then too, as she would 25 years later, as Julius and his uncles unloaded the boxy rented lorry parked by the gate. As the Okekes worked, they sang and danced along to the highlife songs Ijay’s father loaded into the cassette player. Even from a distance, Ijay saw the lean muscles in Julius’s forearms straining with exertion and she thought about the last time he held her. A week after Julius proposed, they had decided to visit Ogbunike cave and Ijay had stopped before the 100-step descent to the cave entrance. The journey had not yet begun, and she was paralyzed at the thought of falling. Julius held her then, his familiar fingers wandering over her soft stomach, and whispered, “Tell me, and we’ll turn back,” and his weight behind her gave her the strength to step forward, again and again, until they stood before the eroded mouth of the cave, surrounded by lush rainforest. Then thunder had erupted from the reddening sky, and they raced back up the worn steps, laughing, soliloquizing, and calling out to Amadioha for mercy. Before Ijay could duck, Julius had looked up at her in the window, like he had known she was watching all along, and kept looking. He was beautiful.

Julius was unable to grow a beard, chicken-legged, missing one premolar tooth, greying at twenty four, and beautiful. He winked and jogged to the lorry to unload the last crate. In the parlour, after Naira amounts had been negotiated and before Ijay’s maternal grandfather began speaking in proverbs, Ijay’s father asked, “Ijeoma, is this what you want? If it is not what you want, gwa anyi. And you go your separate ways.” Ijay needs thick glasses to pick out faces now. Chisom, Kambili, and Ugo are sitting under a thatch canopy. Chisom’s inquisitiveness has followed her all the way through a doctorate degree and Ugo, the baby of the family, has channeled his video game obsession into a career in video game development. Kambili—who is vlogging for her Youtube channel, her arm arched at a practiced angle—is the most like Ijay, boisterous and vain. Kambili’s curiosities typically centred on herself, and she spent time asking questions like, “Why is it ‘Mama and Papa Chisom’ and not ‘Mama and Papa Kambili?’” Ijay tries to find Julius in the crowd, but he is hidden among aunties and uncles and godparents and classmates and unaffiliated locals attending for the sake of filling their stomachs. It doesn’t matter—she trusts her feet to guide her to her husband. Ijay turns to the bathroom mirror and takes off her glasses. Her eyes are her best feature, after all, and she wants Julius to see them, even if that means struggling to see him. Ijay could find her sweetheart blindfolded. She told him so on the flights from Calgary to Lagos, and the flight from Lagos to Asaba, and the drive from Asaba to Nnewwi. The artwork on the parlour walls are the same ones that hung when Ijay’s father asked, “Is this what you want?”: an Adamma masquerade painted in waxy reds, yellows, and greens; a portrait of Ijay’s father in an isiagu-patterned suit; and a skinny Igbo maiden with exposed breasts carrying a chunky baby on her back. Ijay’s father pushes open the front door. The harmattan haze is thick, and the humidity is thicker. Ijay steps outside. The soil in the East is red, and maybe this is why the earth is so fertile. Anambra heals, and mends, and grows the most impossible of crops.

When Ijay was nineteen years old, she was sure that multiple divorces and hard-fought settlements were in her future. She had heard of too many battered wives, and illicit lovers, and suppressed dreams, and surprise polygamists, and joyless partnerships to believe her fate wasn’t tied to one of these scenarios. Or maybe she would die during childbirth like her mother. Unlike her father, she was sure her husband would remarry. Yes, he would remarry a girl younger than her, more compliant, less taxing, so Ijay had to look good in her wedding photos. That way, when her children looked through photo albums, they would remember her as confidently breathtaking instead of less pretty and less worthy than Step Mummy #1. When Ijay iterated her visions to Jideofor—her distant cousin, childhood playmate, and the only man in her life that she felt could deem her ideas palatable—he sighed, “Eziokwu.” True. When Ijay met Julius in the Nnamdi Azikiwe Library at the University of Nigeria Nsukka, she was not looking for a husband. They were reading the same novel—Buchi Emecheta’s The Bride Price— and when Julius asked her what she was thinking, she told him that it was sickening that Buchi’s husband had burned the first draft and that more women ought to embrace divorce. Julius had agreed. He often wished his mother had the means to leave his drunkard father, who he’d recently caught beating her. Ijay had told him that his mother’s community was a means and surely his mother had a family compound she could return to, and the librarian had asked them to leave and they had apologized, then continued the conversation in hushed tones. And nearly every week, they met up in the library and whispered about Julius’s mother, and how she could leave, and where she could go but, before they could set any plan in motion, Julius’s father died. Ijay was convinced they would have nothing else to talk about. But then they started talking about each other and, the more Ijay learned about Julius Okeke, the more she felt he would make a good first husband. The husband you put your hopes and dreams in because you trust and believe in him, the one who crushes them unexpectedly and leaves you hollow and rigid enough to seek out a second whom you do not love.

In the beginning, Ijay waited for a moment of doubt, a moment that would justify walking away, but it never came. By the time Julius proposed, she had stopped holding her breath. By the time they landed in Toronto Pearson Airport with five suitcases, two Ghana Must Gos, and a certainty in their new uncertainty, she could not imagine making the journey with anyone else. Both had scored 79 points across the 100-point Federal Skilled Worker grid and, with two stamped landed immigrant papers tucked into Ijay’s carry-on bag, they had begun their life in Canada. Jideofor called often, to make sure Ijay was settling in, to make sure Ijay had what she wanted. “And what happened to Step Mummy #1?” Jideofor once asked, and Ijay answered, “Eh. Ask me again next week, it depends on if he’s really forgotten my birthday or is putting on an act to frustrate me.” Wine in hand, and trailed by her band of aunties and nieces, Ijay dances through the crowd in search of her husband. She is sure that her glands have been colonized by the Canadian cold as she finds herself sweating abnormally as she traverses the compound, squinting through dust and sunlight. Backed by the live band, Ijay moves her hips as much as she can without spilling the wine and summons Julius’s smiling face in her mind’s eye. Ijay has never fallen out of love. She has fallen prey to anger, and jealousy, and irritation, but she has never fallen out of love. The truth is that, kneeling in that Catholic cathedral in Surulere in her glittering wedding gown and angling her chin so that her neck looked longer in the photos, the priest’s thunderous voice was a fleeting thought in her mind. What she was really thinking about, deeply, seriously, was how strange it was that she had no doubts. Julius, kneeling beside her, had leaned over and whispered, “The man sounds like thunder,” and she had laughed, forgetting about her chin, and this was the photo that Chisom had pointed out. “What was going through your mind, Mommy?” This is what I want. This is exactly what I want. The world is a blurry mess of dust and sweat and light and exhilaration, but Ijay is confident she could find Julius anywhere.

She kneels and Kambili exclaims, “What? She gave the wine to the wrong—does this make me a bastard child?”

tradition lives here.

Ijay can see the shock on Julius’s face three seats away as Jideofor leans forward to receive the wine. Then she swats Jideofor’s hand away, scolding, “I bu onye ara. Reaching wasn’t part of it.” With a flourish, Ijay rises and strolls towards Julius, taking her time to kneel in front of him and murmuring, as quietly as they spoke in Nnamdi Azikiwe Library, “That serves you right for keeping me waiting for 25 years. Now you’re stuck with me—drink your wine, eh?” and Julius laughs, so hard she spies his missing tooth, and drinks.

Thanks to: Njideka Chinwe Harris-Eze Benedict Onyeka Harris-Eze Further Reading: Umeasiegbu, Rems N. “The Way We Lived.” Heinemann Educational Books, 1969, pp. 13-15. Eneogwe, Rosemary. “The Process of Igba Nkwu Nwanyi in Igbo Culture.” Umu Igbo Unite, 2018. https:// umuigbounite.com/2018/12/05/the-process-of-igbankwu-nwanyi-in-igbo-culture/

NABRA BADR

WHERE DOES A LOST LANGUAGE GO?

REBECCA SEWARD LANGDON

Language is the foundation of human identity. In all its forms—whether it’s written, spoken, drawn, or signed—it has given us access to learn about societies that date back centuries before our time. It is a way for people and societies to connect and interact. However, languages can also form a barrier between people. They can be used as tools to create hierarchy and division within societies. How has linguistic power been so effective that it has managed to wipe out and endanger some of Africa’s oldest languages, namely Khoisan languages? The histories of colonization and assimilation have shown how language hegemony was used as a tool to erase languages, along with their cultures and identities. The Khoisan have suffered from assimilation, land grabbing and colonization—all contributing to their language endangerment.

African Language Families In order to understand the African languages as presented in our current time, it is important to know where they came from. Africa is the cradle of humankind. Fossils of the earliest stages of human evolution, australopithecus afarensis and homo habilis (homo, meaning human), were found largely in Eastern and Southern Africa. “Lucy” was discovered in Hadar, Ethiopia in 1974, and is among these skeletal fossils of early humans. As the home of human evolution, it is no surprise that four of the major language families of the world have been traced back to Africa. These language families include:

Nilo- Saharan Language Family Tree

Niger-Congo Language Family Tree

Khoisan Language Family Tree

tradition lives here.

Afro- Asiatic Language Family Tree

These language families are made up of many ethnolinguistic groups, which each have their own identities and cultures. Through migration, trade and inter-cultural and inter-ethnic communication, the African language family trees grew in diversity. Lost Languages The United Nations declared 2019 as the International Year of Indigenous Languages. But why are Indigenous languages so important? Simply put, language lets us communicate how we perceive our surroundings, our environment and ourselves; shapes the way we think about things and gives meaning. Language allows societies to record their own stories and histories—It gives them a voice. Therefore, the threat of language extinction is inherently a threat to identity. The Khoisan language family is one of the language groups that originated in Africa. It has origins in East Africa, in what is now Tanzania, but has suffered through assimilation, colonization, and processes of modernization. The population and geographical area of Khoisan speakers have diminished significantly, making them an endangered language. Now Khoisan language family speakers are mostly found in Southern Africa. Khoisan languages were first assimilated by Bantu-speakers of the Niger-Congo family in the early Common Era across the most Eastern, Central, and Southern African. Hadza and Sandawe are the only descendant ethnolinguistic groups surviving in Tanzania. Further on, between the 1650s and 1770s, Dutch settlers (Boers) expanded in the South-western Cape by stealing land from the Khoisan. After a series of battles, smallpox epidemics, and loss of land and livestock, the Khoisan had lost their economic and political independence. With that, they lost their cultural heritage and language through Dutch assimilation. In other regions, various social and economic encounters, such as trade with non-Khoisan speaking ethnolinguistic groups is what resulted in the death of Khoisan languages.

Language Hegemony The loss of languages is equivalent to the loss of cultures and civilizations. The entire concept of language supremacy is a characteristic of colonialism. Indigenous African languages have undergone the process of extinction, starting from the imposition of the colonizer’s language, to one ethnolinguistic group being favoured—usually from racist or colourist perceptions—to English, French or other colonial languages becoming the official national languages even after independence. In Southern Africa, the processes of modernization and land grabbing perpetuated the marginalization of languages, threatening Khoisan languages, people, and their forms of representation. Living beside non-Khoisan speaking neighbours, they were assimilated and marginalized. Losing their rights to their language, Khoisan speakers were forced to speak the languages of more populous groups. Most Khoisan communities were not able to resist socio-political and sociolinguistic changes brought on by their neighbours, which made for systematic linguistic assimilation. With oral tradition perceived of as ‘myths’, there is no record of the extent of what is lost with these languages. Language Revival The tragedy of lost languages is largely at the hand of early archaeologists and anthropologists who failed to keep a record of languages, leaving us with information only on material culture and ethnicity. When a language is lost and not well documented, there is not much that is left behind, therefore it is impossible to re-learn and revive the language. However, there are now community-based efforts to document Khoisan languages that face extinction, using strategies including promoting language and identity pride, religion, cultural traditions and celebrations, education and technology. Although these are great efforts to revive Khoisan languages, linguistic hegemony and assimilation remain the greatest threats to Indigenous languages. Therefore, it is the people, their independence and their rights that must be protected in order to prevent the loss of languages.

tradition lives here.

TRANSPORTING MYTHOLOGY REINA COWAN

“Eh Kwik!” “Eh Kwak!” In her book, “Tales From the Caribbean,” author Trish Cooke recounts the call and expected response that raconteurs would give in her parents’ native Dominica before launching into traditional folk stories. With roots in African tradition oral tradition, this type of storytelling has allowed the passage of monsters and mischief-making characters across the Atlantic. Cooke notes that “originally the stories were passed down by word of mouth and the storyteller would have added and taken away parts of the story to make it work for a specific audience.” (Cooke, “Author’s note”) Creatures like Anansi the Spider, Gang Gang Sara the Witch of Golden Lane, Papa Bwa and Mama Glo In cases like those of Anansi or Gang Gang Sara, characters go through a transformative process upon touching down in the Caribbean, due to the physical landscapes and cultural traditions they encounter that differ from those in Africa. Myths and characters passed down from African to Caribbean oral traditions, provide a mirror through which to examine how the experience of displacement has impacted African people as they have crossed the ocean to land on the islands. By highlighting mythological stories based around the characters’ physical environment, I hope to illustrate how the physical aspect of colonization— establishing oneself on new ground as portrayed through myth— is integral to the Afro-Caribbean imagination and construction of self. NABRA BADR

Author Solimar Otero says that authors grapple with “the hotly contested spiritual boundaries found in locating different ‘Africas’ within the melded, creolized and quotidian practice of Afro-Caribbean religion.” (Otero, 7.) Similarly to religious tradition, I argue that in storytelling tradition, the focus on individual characters that transform from their roots in African myths then create various new “Africas” creates an essential lens through which Afro-Caribbean people can view their own creation stories as a people.

Anansi, the spider Originating from Ghana, and named after the Akan language word for “spider,” Anansi is a popular mythological “trickster” character. Anansi Stories originated in West Africa. Came to Jamaica and other Caribbean islands from Ashanti slaves. Passed down orally through generations. Anansi is sometimes a man, sometimes a spider, occasionally both. tradition lives here.

Not only transported from Africa to Caribbean mythology, but also parallels the African American character, Br’er Rabbit. Anansi stories are some of the most popular forms of Afro-Caribbean folklore in part due to themes of intellectual resistance. Anansi stories have often been told as children’s stories or lullabies, however they encompass themes that were highly applicable to adults under the colonial social order as well. Among those of African descent in the New World, Anansi’s trickster nature highlights the intellectual wit and resilience that enslaved Africans needed to develop once brought to the Caribbean. Because the enslaved had little physical power over their oppressors, they often displayed small acts of resistance that were mental or psychological instead. Author Ron Cherry says that among African Jamaicans “Anansi is generally a figure of admiration whose cunning and scheming nature reflects qualities necessary to survive in an oppressive society.” (Cherry, 71.) Although often told to children, Cherry notes that in Jamaica, Anansi’s trickery could be interpreted as a form of “street smarts.” In major cities like Kingston, known for higher levels of violence, Anansi became a lesson in self-preservation. Anansi’s transformation from spider to man to disguise himself served a lesson to urban Caribbean people to keep their wits about them and avoid hypervisibility to avoid being a potential target for those up to no good. In cases like this, we see how the physical urban landscape parallels the teachings of this mythological creature and impacts its citizens as they move from African to Afro-Caribbean.

“Gang Gang Sara’s story speaks of the wish to return to Africa and of the impossibility of return.” (Skinner, Waller,99.) After living on the islands, displaced from her native Africa, Sara’s body has “absorbed the salt of Tobago.” This impact has created a sort of hybridity: now that Sara has experienced life in a new land, she can never be as she once was. Despite being portrayed as a witch in Caribbean mythology, the legend of Sara parallels the experience of black immigrants— displaced from Africa and subject to the transformative powers of plantation life on the colonial islands. Once they have touched Caribbean soil, a new element is added to the African identity that is determined by life in the New World and the colonial encounter. The Legend of Gang Gang Sarah. In the late 18th century, the story of Gang Gang Sarah, or the Witch of Golden Lane began to emerge. Legend has it that one night, Sarah flew from her home in Africa to land in the Tobagonian village of Les Cocteau. From there, she went on to travel to Golden Lane to locate her lost family who she believed to be in the area. At Golden Lane, Sara married a man named Tom. Years and years later, after his death, Sara longs to return to Africa, climbing to the top of the silk cotton tree in hopes of flying back home. But after consuming salt in Tobago, Sara discovers she no longer has the ability to fly.

In Afro-Caribbean culture, oral traditions allow the passage of stories and folklore characters across the Atlantic. In cases like those of Anansi or Gang Gang Sara, characters go through a transformative process upon touching down in the Caribbean, due to the physical geography and cultural traditions that differ from those in Africa. The examples of these characters and their stories illustrate why folklore makes an essential lens to study the “creolization” of cultures between Africa and the Caribbean. Whether in their African forms of inception or in Caribbean variations that have evolved over time and oceans, characters like Anansi, Gang Gang Sara and others in this volume serve to highlight life lessons and reflect the collective imaginations of Afro-Caribbean people and their worlds.

Sara’s body “has absorbed the salt of Tobago, a transformative experience that ties her to the Caribbean and provides her with a changed identity.” (Skinner, Waller, 99.)

tradition lives here.

SARAH NUZUM

WHEN SETTLERS DREW MAPS OF THE KATANGA REGION, THE LUBA WERE SPEAKING IN TONGUES

YANNICK MUTOMBO

My grandmother likes to begin a story by looking into herself. She sips from her tea which is sometimes chai, other times orange pekoe, decaf – seeing as she drinks multiple cups a day and we realized how much caffeine that was – laced with honey, just a touch of it to sweeten her words. She closes her eyes. She speaks of my grandfather in the days before he passed, how he was quiet and liked to read. He locked the big gates in front of the house one night when my uncle, senior to my mother, missed curfew, spending the night elsewhere. “You see, your grandfather was a quiet man. He was gentle and slow to anger, but like all men, he wanted to be respected. What man allows himself to be disrespected by his own children?” Knowledge fits her like a crown; she is most regal when telling a story – it sits atop her brow, supported by her proud jaw, the long lines of her neck. I like to borrow her voice when I tell stories, because what memory could I speak of that didn’t whisper of her own?

I am a relic of a more complicated time. I was born five years before Congo got its independence, in 1955. Had I been born some decades prior – say in a year preceding the Conference of Berlin, where King Leopold II of Belgium took claim of Congo and her precious rocks, the not-so-precious ones that lay below her waterbed, and the people that drank from it – certainly I’d be part of Bambudye. Bambudye formed a secret group of elders both living amongst society and hiding from it. Using the memory board called the lukasa, with its wooden body, beads and shells varying in colour and meaning, they preserved genealogies, war protocols, the origin story. They disciplined the kings and their abuses of power by reminding them of a time when they had none. So, you see that had I been alive back then, I would wield the mnemonic instrument, and I would be one.

tradition lives here.

The Luba Empire ruled over the Katanga region for many years. By the 18th and 19th centuries, when its rule had reached its peak, Baluba had developed one of the most reliable government systems on the African continent. A two-tiered complex, wherein the Mulopwe (sacred king), by way of his Balopwe (clan kings) ruled over subjects. They were collectively held accountable by the Bambudye and lukasa. Luba people understood the need for balance – power, once handed to a ruler who was swift to act and seldom did so with empathy, easily became manipulation. Baluba were – and still are – amongst the greatest ethnic groups the world has ever seen. Our ancestors were unparalleled in self-reliance; we were often scorned by neighbouring clans, like Badundu and Bangala, who accused us of being pretentious with our haughty speech and refined manners. I don’t blame them; every great Congolese man comes from Baluba. Take, for instance, Patrice Lumumba; he too was one of us. He became leader of the Mouvement National Congolais in 1958, first democratically elected Prime Minister of République du Congo by 1960. His mandate was short-lived: he was assassinated by the Belgians, who subsequently dissolved his body in acid, and in 2000 a police commissioner confessed to having kept two of Lumumba’s teeth. It was a symbolic gesture that is typical of mundele – when they are hungry, they eat diamonds, deny them seconds and they’ll settle for bone. *** A Hawaiian spider plant sits on my windowsill. It has long narrow leaves that develop a glossy sheen and a champagne-coloured streak running down the middle of them, showing that the plant is healthy. This unique trait differentiates the Hawaiian spider plant from other spider plant varieties – which tend to have streaks running along the external edge of the leaves. I named my plant after Patrice Lumumba. Patrice (the plant) is my lukasa. His colour echoes worn-out clichés, like the one about grass being greener on the other side, the other about sticking to familiar waters – when it

rains, it pours. His fruitful foliage speaks on the efficacy of plant root systems; his name reminds me of where I came from. My grandmother, too, is like the lukasa. She is an object of fixation; her every move speaks volumes. In her displacement away from our ancestral land, she brought many things with her – an appreciation for rain songs, for beckoning one’s memory to shore, for tending to the landscape with light strokes and copper tones. Her voice runs deep and all at once – rich like coffee beans turning to juices, forming ripples at the surface, undulating like vocal cords when she speaks of our kin. Some of her stories have an illusionary aspect; words spoken too quickly, details stumbling into one another. Like say, the fact that Patrice Lumumba was not from the Baluba, but rather of the Tetela ethnic group. Nevertheless, something about Lumumba’s politics is undeniably reminiscent of the Baluba governance system, Bambudye, and their use of the lukasa – Lumumba understood that a monopolization of power would lead to the detriment of the people, that the head of state needed to be held accountable. His name was appropriated by black liberation movements across the globe, freedom fighters like Malcolm X who had just enough time to declare him “the greatest black man who ever walked the African continent” before bullet holes were shot through his polemic, courtesy of white supremacy. There is a tendency, among ex-colonials, to assuage their guilt with sidewalks. On June 30th, 2018, the city of Brussels inaugurated Lumumba square, laying the colonialism ordeal to rest in the streets renamed in honour of their former colony’s hero. Thus, the way was paved for neocolonialism to come in full stride, making it difficult to remember where they came from. This past June – as police killings in the United States sparked a global resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement along with pressures to remove monuments honouring European colonizers, and statues of King Leopold II were vandalized – his descendants were prompted to deny the dead monarch’s involvement in the abuses acted upon Congolese people, arguing that he “never went to Congo himself,” and so it was hard to see “how [Leopold] could have made people there suffer.” History and storytelling are complimentary in constructing a digestible truth. For my grandmother, recounting anecdotes is second nature, for others, it can leave a bad taste in the mouth, a bit of prejudice on the breath. I wonder what it was like for the Luba people to have two governing bodies simultaneously ruling over each other, two narratives streaming into public consciousness – did it allow for greater peace? Were their losses any easier to stomach? It seems the only way to get people to remember is by striking a nerve; make them see just how little they should rely on muscle memory. In any case, knowledge is at the heart of the oral tradition, and we immortalize our heroes by upholding the custom, and when settlers drew maps of the Katanga region, the Luba were speaking in tongues.

SARAH NUZUM

tradition lives here.

I imagine Ethiopia tastes like minced raw beef, marinated in mitmita and niter kibbeh. I imagine it is hot and hospitable. Japan must taste like vinegared rice, with a serving of raw fish and vegetables. I’ve never been, but I have tasted them. Offered to me through the memory of their expatriates, at the bazar in my high school in Uganda, it felt like the world came for dinner, and the menu was your passport.

DINE WITH ME How Food Brought Me Community OLA IDRIS

I love food. More importantly, I love when my friends offer me food. I loved listening to my friends share their pride in their home countries and where they are from. Most of my fondest moments as a little girl probably involved food. Food has been a connecting factor between me, cultures and humanity in so many ways and continues to be a part of my comfort. This isn’t unique to just me. When we are growing up, we usually are exposed to the food of our culture and it becomes an intrinsic part of who we are. When we go anywhere, we carry it with us, even if it’s subconscious. And when we go off to college, excited to taste independence and freedom, a little while in we miss the warmth and familiarity of a home-cooked cultural meal. Through my journey of being a third culture kid, I have tasted what homes feel like for others. Slowly, I have come to understand how sharing our food and culture can become a bonding and learning moment. I learnt about my friends’ life experiences while sharing a meal with them, and

I got to value human experiences and connections even more once I met them in their cultures when I tasted their traditional dishes. When I was in high school in Uganda, I was honoured to attend a school that had such a myriad of students from all over the world. Once a year, our school would host a cultural day. The day consisted of performances from each culture and a bazaar. Although I loved watching the dances and the skits by my friends, my favourite part was the bazaar. Each cultural tent had posters and tokens from their homelands and would put out samples of food so students would get the chance to go around trying out the different cuisines and sharing moments of joy. Every year without fail, there was always a new culture or food item. It allowed me to try Japanese sushi for the first time and even a raw meat delicacy from Ethiopia called kitfo. I decided then that maybe uncooked food wasn’t so bad as I had been told by my family when I was a young girl. One year I even got to eat Congolese Caterpillars. Their crunch followed by a tangy taste of the juices in

tradition lives here.

the caterpillar is a fond memory for sure, but one I am not looking to replicate any time soon! Needless to say, each year my stomach got a bunch of little surprises and I loved it. I loved listening to my friends share their pride in their home countries and their cuisines. I loved being in this space where all our identities were equally celebrated and cherished. Looking back, it felt like a great symbolism for humanity. I spent most of my summers in Sudan, in my grandmother’s home. Our home was always full. My aunt and her five kids lived there, and it was also a common stop for the neighbours, family and friends. This meant that most times, food times were big moments filled with laughter and union. In Sudan, meals are usually had around a circular tray and everyone just shares the food— unlike in the West where people are served on separate plates. My aunts, uncles, cousins, and guests would all be hunched over this tray eating and chatting about our days. Although it’s been a while since I have been in Sudan and experienced meals in this fashion, the feeling has a special place in my heart, and always is tucked with other feelings of ‘home’.

The only time we didn’t eat in this tradition was during the month of Ramadan. Ramadan is the holy month in Islam where Muslims fast from sunrise and then break their fast with ‘Iftar’ at sunset. This one meal was also a time where people would come together to celebrate. It was common that guests would walk into our house a couple of minutes before we broke our fast to eat with us so every day. It would be a big meal set up with many different types of food and juices. Some staples at every meal were Sudanese black beans, Sudanese falafel (made from chickpeas), multiple kinds of salads and always some kind of meat. We would fill the dining room with music or just natural sounds of laughter, and as kids, we were so excited because every day felt like a feast! When I immigrated to Canada, I was upset because I knew that Ramadan would not be the same. Here the days were longer and hotter, so it was harder to fast, and I would not get to experience that sense of family and community in the same way. So, I was so excited when I found out that the Sudanese community in Mississauga held weekly get-togethers during Ramadan to break the fast. Sudanese from all over the city would meet up, every family would bring a different dish and folks would share this one night a week together. I got to meet some of my closest Sudanese friends at these gatherings, and it was so special to me because I had just moved and was longing for familiarity and new friends. Food always had a way of bringing people together who are meant to be in our lives. I was glad that most summers I would be in Mississauga rather than Waterloo, so I could attend the weekly Ramadan get-togethers. But in the summer of 2019, I had a study term and unfortunately, that meant I had to be in Waterloo all summer. I slowly started to fully understand how important it was to have a community, especially with other Sudanese folk in the midst of the Sudanese Revolution of 2019. Most of us felt disconnected and were yearning for some feeling of home, so my friend and I decided to bring our friends together to break our fast together in Waterloo. We also

decided to invite a bunch of our other non-Sudanese friends to have them experience a Sudanese Iftar. We treated it as a potluck and so everyone was able to contribute something. It ended up being one of the most healing nights of the summer. We played games, laughed through the stress of school, revolutions, being young adults, and life in general, and no one wanted the night to end. When it hit 2:00 a.m., the few folks that remained were adamant that we should stay up all night to have our meal before sunrise together. And so, about ten of us decided to take a short road trip from Waterloo to Toronto at 2 o’clock in the morning to have some Denny’s and prolong our time together for as long as we could. It was during that ride over that I realized how grateful I was to have people around me that understood how important it is to come together and enjoy these moments of human connection. I reflect on that night often, especially since this year we weren’t able to do any kind of social gatherings for Ramadan due to the pandemic. If anything, experiencing the isolation of 2020 has made me more grateful for the memories I do have surrounded by love and friends. Food is a tying piece for me to understand culture, to seek comfort, to connect with my family and friends, and to feel connected to my roots. Even today, when I feel homesick, a good Sudanese meal makes me feel a whole lot better, almost like my spirit is transported home for that little while. I hope I never lose that feeling that food gives me, and I hope I continue to honour the cultures that it exposes me to.

tradition lives here.

NADA ELNAIEM

WITHOUT WATER, NO LIFE

Musings on the Realities of Water for a Somali Women’s Spirituality

SUN SHEIKH HUSSEIN

What I mean, when I say I am drowning. “[...] Like the depths of darkness in a vast deep ocean, overwhelmed with waves topped by waves, topped by clouds: depths of darkness, one above another: if a man stretches out his hand, he will not see it! If Allah does not give light to a person he will not have light!” Quran: The Light, 24:40

My favourite spot in Toronto rests in between Lakeshore and the horizon. There lies a pit of emptiness that always holds my gaze. I am enchanted by the way the seas kiss the sky. Its image washes my concerns over. The amble sounds of tides gently rising offer reminders that water and all its forms are only ripples for our search of God. It is here I reflect on how water shows up for me, in both stillness and in rage. It is here I drift in thought and memory.

tapping the void. The more I questioned, the more I delved into something bigger than my own humanity, seeking the ins and outs and the in-betweens of an ultimate reality I cannot see or let it run by my fingers, like water out of a running sink over my feet as I rush for salah. And sometimes, on some of my hardest days, I let the bathwater run me; submerging me into new imagined places on what it means to feel safe, to put out any and of my own fires, and to bring me closer to life as much as in death and grief.

On the 16th of June 2020 I write: “I am on the outskirts of ‘sauga with Nimca. We watch the river glisten and birds dip in and dip out. I stare to where the water stretches out to eternity. We paint with watercolor and I spill everything over the salmon-pink color boardwalk. Still enough, the waters are still present, breaths between 3.5’s rocking towards their unmarked edges ‘it’s canoeing, come help me take it out’ her t’s muffled by the smoke as we furrow our brows. The water is catching up and uncertainty is pressed. It does not care if you are ready or not, only hoping that we could accept the reality while being picked alive in between our pauses.” I think about how water washes over and replenishes the body, mind and soul yet the truth and traditions that followed any expansive forms of water were not easy to take in. I take time out to watch the waves, to read bismillah into my cup of water, and to focus on its miniature pools in my palm over my body during Wuudu and Ghusl. It is an instant relief. Rejuvenation. There are other stories, however, where the seas are filled with song, mischief and delusion. Sometimes at night, being near large bodies of water, I think of the tales of Jinni and the last of days where imagined waters would rise, anything that people spew at the opaque face of uncertainty. Large bodies of water and the stretch of seemingly endless sky can show up as realms, barriers and spaces within their own right. I ask people— what are you more afraid of, the deep sea or outer space? They have similar natures as they drive our innate curiosities to the edge, just lightly

Water permits such an abundant cycle, yet its depths are just as haunting as they are giving; in both its absence and its terror. And in its smaller forms, its wispy reminders to cool down and recharge can be found in Islamic tradition And my personal journey with healing. I choose water and I’d like to think that it chooses me too. Nimac and I needed to be just right outside of ‘sauga that weekend. The summer that had passed was a long and uneasy one. We needed to be by the water, even if it was just for a moment. In search of clarity and purity, water holds that. But it also overflows. It destroys. It can mislead, contain the unseen, or cause you to sink. I believe that the Islamic perspective reminds us that water is both literally and figuratively a reflection. I used to have a fire in me because I was the type of kid to run first, ask later. I was awfully reactionary but it happens when you’ve only been surrounded by reactionary people. The people would say, traditionally and hinted on the Prophet (SAW)’s sunnah, maybe this child was closer to her Shaytaan than she knew. The idea was: when you’re too angry, douse yourself in wudu and pure intention. Put yourself out by divine means. And then water instantly became a new reality. Ironically, water is clear and holds no color (other than what you give it). I remember the first time I’ve sat in Quran Saar or Ruqyah known as the Islamic exorcism. I was encircled by loved ones and sheikhs who promised that they would help the angsty 12-year-old in front of them. They read the appropriate verses, drank the water just a tad, and lightly spat into my direction. I’ve ducked and

tradition lives here.

dashed from any sort of religious activity since then. Until I was swayed by Duas made during rainfall and Quran frequenting the halls at night, I’ve been absent and absentminded. I’ve also been grieving—Constantly almost. It’s almost as if I’m forcing water to soothe over what cannot be helped. And I return to traditions to make some sense out of the voids that gouge and stifle aspects of my life that were never meant to be endless.

(perhaps a word with God or myself). It stirs me as much as it accompanies me with glad tidings. But its waves are an answer; as simple yet layered facets of a balance beam between life and death.

I reached out to my parents. We watched a docuseries together on Malcolm X. My Mother points out, “There is water coming out of his grave, he’s a saint,” and I turned over to her as if I was lost in my own home. She says generally, “Without water, no life,” and it opens up the question of death and the things that cannot be helped.

“Do not those who disbelieve see that the heavens and the Earth were meshed together then We ripped them apart? And then We made of water everything living? Would they still not believe?”

I think about the open-endedness of water. When I ask my mother about rainfall, she tells me “remember Allah,” and it dawns on me how expressive this interaction really means. In Sufi cosmology, when one remembers Allah, they are in between the realms. My mother’s eyes widen when she discusses Allah getting closer and the heavens expanding, almost inviting, all due to invocation and remembrance. The planet Neptune in Somali is Docay, mimicking familiar words translated to prayed or blessed. A planet associated with the unseen, as it was the first planet that was not detected by the naked eye, she is known in both astrology and astronomy as the dreamy planet of mystifying waters, of distortions yet harsh truths—and anything concealed. I find it almost funny that even in the traces of the Somali language, it feels as intentional as making Wuudu itself. Within remembering, re-centering and returning, (Somali) Islamic traditions aim towards truth, healing, and coping with hardship. I have been shrouded by my own existentialism; an inner fire on what it means to be safe, sound and perceived. Sometimes I was too quick, only responding in ways I knew how. Other times, it guarded me or flashed my curiosity within Islam. It wasn’t until I revisited the implications of water, both serene and ghastly, that I understood how Cyclic the element appears for me—on earth and elsewhere

Water operates a lot like the truth that I have to allow, from primordial soul and timeless tales of apocalyptic floods, distantly preparing for rebirth. There is just not much to do but ‘llow it. Besides heal.

The Quran, The Prophets, 21:30

AWAITED

ANGELO GRANT

From little date seeds, great things are born. Everything’s gone as planned. As per custom. Away from baby’s father for all nine months. Stayed with parents. The whole room’s been polished with cow dung, right? Yeah. Been alone since just now because I started to feel it. It’s coming. Mother, grandmother, and little sister. I wish he was here but again, as per custom. He can’t wash like they can anyway, he’d just get in the way. I can see this being excruciating but I can’t wait. Here she comes. The greatest pain I’ve felt in my lifetime—but it is well worth it. I just want to hold and be held. I deserve to at this point. But she’s held over the fire hanging, navel and all. Has it been an hour yet? And every day until it falls from her belly?

EFE OSAZUWA

It needs to drop now. The hour’s up, finally. She’s taken down, for now at least, and finally. Finally, I can hold her. It was three more days until the cord dropped. She’s one of us now. Her family, our family, files in to celebrate. There he is! It’s been so long… I can be held now. We embrace until he has to go and bury the cord. Give thanks to the ancestors. Her name..? We decided to name her Lindiwe. Yes, “awaited”. Now that she’s here, the village is behind her - she’s going to be great. If you don’t initiate the youth, they will burn down the village. I’m ready to become a man. I’m so close. I’ve done everything I needed to. As a boy, I made sure I was good and hardworking and always listened to my father. He had to choose me for the fanadu this time around. But… wow. This has been hell. But I guess there’s no other way.

tradition lives here.

The ceremony on the first day was pretty cool. I got to wear bullhorns and even blow them and so did my age-mates. A lot of people from the village came to watch and we all danced together. It got really intense after that, though. We did the circum-whatever and got sent into the sacred forest for two months. Two months, man. All we got was a pano cloth we had to use for clothing and shelter too. That’s not even to mention that we were watching out for witchcraft the whole time. They must’ve known we were easy-pickings during this weird transition phase. I don’t know why anyone would do that to us. There’s so much jealousy it scares me these days. We were protected by, but still, I have to admit I was pretty scared. We’re almost done now though and I can honestly say- I honestly feel like I’ve grown. Like I’m almost a man of the village. I can’t believe every man went through this. So much respect for everyone now. And no more messing around for me. I know what I have to do now. The doors of wisdom are now wide open. When one is in love, a cliff becomes a meadow. It’d been decided before I was. Before we were. I never really understood that; how two people could be tied together from before they ever knew anything about anything. I didn’t really understand all the family arrangements and prices and all that either until recently. All I’ve known for a long time now is that somehow, maybe luckily, I do love her. If I have to pay a little bride price to be with her then so be it. I’ve never been away from her for this long. I wish this wasn’t part of the whole tradition. But it’s given me time to think. And even though I know I love her, and I embrace destiny, I wonder if she sees it as an unfortunate fate. And how does she feel about our family paying 8 cows for her and our marriage? Maybe I’ll ask her sometime soon, after everything’s official. But the payment’s being made tomorrow. At that point, she’ll be between families already and it might be too late. Before no time we’ll be recognized by the village as a married couple.

I really hope this is what she wants as well. I know it’s more than just her and I, it’s a union of two families, and her family feels that we’d do best together, but still… Eternity is an ocean, time is the ship, destiny is the captain, and death is the storm. What a feeling. The purest experience of peace. More than peace; a release. A release from the burden of the flesh. Though still not among the ancestors, I do feel the call, the pull. What were they meant to do back there again? The burial of course, yes. And then they had to do that ritual, right? The one to move me on to meet the ancestors. Yes. What had it been called again? Really no matter at all. I’m free, finally, and I trust them to do what must be done. What I need to do now is prepare to guide. The people of the village depend on the ancestors for direction. Not only that, but with death comes life. It had been time for me to make way for the life of another in the village and assume my ancestral role. In fact, I had been told a child was born right before I transitioned. She’d just finished the birth ritual. I’d love to see the child. Once I join the ancestors I must do what I can to guide and protect her. I believe her mother had named her Lindiwe.

COLOURBLIND HEALTHCARE: Examining Pregnant Black Women’s Experiences Of Medical Racism In Jamaica And Canada KAYONNE CHRISTY

SARAH NUZUM

tradition lives here.

During her pregnancy, Michelle* decided to visit her midwifery clinic after having concerns about skin discolouration. Her midwife, who was white, dismissed these concerns by telling Michelle that, “Black people have differences in their skin tone, that’s totally normal,” and sending her home. A few days later when Michelle went in for a checkup, she was told that she had preeclampsia and had to be induced unexpectedly. After reflecting on this experience, Michelle shares: “Yeah, I feel if I had met caregivers that cared more about me as a person and didn’t say, ‘Oh, that happens to everyone’ because I’m not everyone, it would’ve made a difference. To them, everyone is a white female or someone who has a lighter skin tone and I don’t fit into that box, so when I say that there’s an issue, you shouldn’t be saying that you don’t recognize the issue, instead, you should try to figure out, ‘Okay, what is the issue?’ And help me solve it and help me fix whatever the problem is.“ Michelle* Given that Black women are not only at a higher risk of developing preeclampsia, but that we are also up to four times more likely to die from preeclampsia-related complications than white women,1 this type of medical oversight is a textbook example of what I refer to as ‘colourblind healthcare’—an elusive form of medical racism. Pregnant Black women experience racism within all social institutions, including healthcare, where their experiences have regularly been characterized by overt discrimination and outwardly hostile medical environments.2-4 However, we know that in addition to overt expressions, racism also manifests more covertly in the 21st century. Over the past several decades, colourblindness has become a popular way of thinking and talking about race.5 Racial colourblindness refers to the idea that race is no longer an important category of difference in our society. When your colleague tells you that they “don’t see race,” that’s racial colourblindness. Both Canada and Jamaica embrace racial colourblindness; albeit, in different ways. By brand

ing itself as a ‘creole’ society, Jamaica attempts to minimize racial differences by fusing different racial and ethnic groups into one common national identity. An early example of this was the declaration of the Jamaican national motto, “out of many, one people,” in 1962. Canada, on the other hand, brands itself as a ‘multicultural’ society, and in doing so, attempts to minimize racial differences by supposedly integrating and celebrating different cultures in Canadian society.7 An early example of this is the declaration of multiculturalism as an official government policy in 1971.8 The problem with these types of colourblind discourses is that they obscure how white supremacy has been central to the national identity of both the Jamaican and Canadian colonial projects,9,10 and minimize how racial differences are related to structural inequality. In this way, ‘creole’ and ‘multicultural’ colourblindness ignore how power structures inequality along racial lines, and in turn, ignores the existence of racism. As a Jamaican-Canadian medical sociologist, I have spent the last year investigating how this type of racial colourblindness shapes the prenatal healthcare experiences of Black women in Canada and Jamaica. Through interviews with Canadian and Jamaican Black women, I developed the concept of ‘colourblind healthcare’ to explain how medical racism, which is often understood as an overt phenomenon, is also a covert and structural one. Colourblind healthcare is a form of allegedly ‘race-neutral’ or ‘non-racial’ healthcare delivery. It happens when healthcare professionals 1) privilege biomedical approaches to healthcare delivery over race-conscious ones, and 2) ignore the race of their patients when providing care. At this point, you may be asking yourself, “Okay, well, why is race important in the healthcare setting anyways? Shouldn’t we all be treated the same regardless of race?” Well, yes…and no. Let’s unpack this a bit.

Medical Racism refers to racism that is experienced within the healthcare system.

tradition lives here.

To begin, we have to debunk the idea that medicine is an objective, socially neutral science. It isn’t. Western biomedicine, including obstetrics and gynecology, was developed almost exclusively by white European men.11 Because of this, the knowledge base of the discipline reflects both Eurocentric and masculinist ways of thinking and knowing about health and illness. Racism has also been central to medicine’s development, as the discipline was built on histories of slavery and medical experimentation.11,12 In the case of obstetrics and gynecology, some of the most pioneering techniques and medical equipment in the discipline, such as the caesarean section and the vaginal speculum, were developed by slave-owning physicians who experimented on the bodies of enslaved Black women without their consent.13 Owens and Fett (2019) argue that the way “gynecology advanced from American slavery means that Black people have always had a precarious relationship to the field and its practitioners” (p. 1343). So, when providers privilege biomedical approaches to healthcare delivery, they are, in fact, exalting a knowledge base that is rooted in racism, sexism, and eurocentric and masculinist ways of knowing about health and illness. This is critical because such approaches seldom appreciate how racism shapes the health of Black communities. Whether or not we experience overt racism every day, as Black people, our lives have been shaped by histories (past and present) of anti-Black racism. And these histories continue to impact all aspects of our lives—from education to employment, housing, law, and certainly health/healthcare. If we consider the contemporary impacts of racism on health more closely, we see that racism is an important structural determinant of health. Because racism is a psychosocial stressor, having to deal with racism throughout our life negatively impacts our physical and mental health. This is important for all Black people, but particularly pregnant Black women, since additional stress during pregnancy can lead to poor maternal and infant health outcomes.

Despite the importance of acknowledging racism as a determinant of health for pregnant Black women, many of the women I spoke with explained that healthcare providers did not bring up race in the prenatal healthcare context. For Black women in Jamaica, many said that because the country is predominantly Black, race was of little importance in the medical setting. For example, Nia* (Jamaica) didn’t believe that race was important in her healthcare experiences, but discussed how her class shaped her experiences of care: “You have some that live uptown, while we are downtown. The ones that live uptown, they can afford the private care. We live in the ghetto; we can afford the public because it is free.” Nia* It’s been well documented that the uptown/ downtown class stratification in Jamaica mirrors the colonial racial hierarchy. Although more Black people now live uptown, generally, those in closer proximity to whiteness tend to live in affluent ‘uptown’ neighbourhoods while Black, darker-skinned Jamaicans tend to live in ‘downtown’ lower-income areas. So, while the impact of class is indeed important in the prenatal healthcare setting,17 so too is the impact of race, since race and skin colour are inextricably linked with class in Jamaica and around the world. For Black women in Canada, many explained that healthcare providers seemed hesitant to discuss race. For example, Jamila* (Canada) described that race was so rarely mentioned during her prenatal care that she was surprised when her Black midwife brought up race at all:

Structural Determinant of Health are various upstream social and economic factors that influence people’s overall health and quality-of-life outcomes

“My midwife who’s doing the post-natal appointments—she was Black—and she’s like, ‘yeah, that’s really common among Black babies’. And I was like, ‘hmmm! You actually like said I’m Black!’ Which shouldn’t be a revelation, but you know, there’s just a belief that being colourblind and shading everybody the same is best. But I kind of feel like acknowledging those differences and those lived experiences is necessary.” – Jamila* (Canada) As long as racism exists in our society, racism will impact health. And as long as racism impacts health, race must be acknowledged within the healthcare setting. When healthcare professionals provide colourblind healthcare by privileging biomedical approaches to health (which have epistemic foundations that are both racist and sexist) over race-conscious approaches to health (that are sensitive to racialized lived experiences), they are, in fact, providing pregnant Black women with lower quality care by overlooking a critical structural determinant of health among this population group. “I get it, they’re professional, they’re probably like, ‘I see this all the time. It’s nothing,’ but then you hear about how so many Black women end up dying after childbirth, so I think that was also a fear for me—not having the proper care…When I would ask certain questions, the reassurance wasn’t, ‘You’re fine. Everything is good,’ the reassurance was, ‘It’s normal. We all go through it.’” Tasha* (Jamaica) Pretending to not see race will not make racism disappear. We cannot address the problems caused by racism by refusing to acknowledge its presence. This is true within and outside of the prenatal healthcare context. Race consciousness, a central tenet of Critical Race Theory, refers to an awareness of how race is related to structural inequality.

Race consciousness is important within the context of prenatal care because it presents a way of challenging the colourblind assumptions that are central to upholding colourblind healthcare. While my research specifically examines pregnant Black women’s experiences of medical racism, I believe these findings are relevant to Black people across the diaspora. If you are a Black person navigating the healthcare system, do not be afraid to bring up your race with your healthcare provider. If you are a healthcare provider, it’s critical that you take a race-conscious approach to healthcare delivery. Healthcare professionals must be aware of how racism intersects with other systems of oppression (such as classism and sexism) to create differences in lived experiences and health outcomes among their patient groups. It’s time we abandon dominant colourblind discourses within the healthcare setting and embrace race-conscious ones. The health of all of us depends on it. *=pseudonym used to protect the privacy of participants.

Kayonne Christy is a third-generation Jamaican-Canadian woman. She completed her undergraduate training at McMaster University, where she received her B.Sc. (honours) in the Life Sciences, and B.A. (summa cum laude) in Health Studies. She is currently a second-year sociology graduate student at The University of British Columbia. Her research interests exist in the nexus between race, gender, class and health. Broadly speaking, she is interested in the structural determinants of health, and the interplay between social and health inequities. She uses intersectional (Black, Caribbean, transnational) feminist approaches to examine how racial colourblindness shapes diasporic Black women’s experiences of health and healthcare. Importantly, Kayonne is an aspiring salsa dancer and wine connoisseur.

DJ GOMEZ

tradition lives here.

KUNYURWA

a letter of gratitude CELINE ISIMBI

To the Rudasumbwa - Dusabimana Matriarch: Thank you for teaching me - in subtlety - to embrace the beauty of the little moments. I remember Saturday mornings with you, as we got ready for church. The weekends that we the cousins would spend with our grandmother. You’d wake us up early to bathe (bucket and water style), have breakfast, and then the dreaded hair combing fiasco would take place. Imagine this; three girls all sitting and waiting in line for our grandmother to comb out every kink and coil of our 4c, thick, Black, Rwandan hair. As we waited in anticipation, we would have a lovely cup of Rooibos tea and some peanut butter sandwiches, made with a thick helping of peanut butter. This sweet tea and overly thick peanut butter was a showing that you did everything in overflow—an overflow of love, sweetness, grace and beauty. Many tears were shed during those mornings wishing for the hair brushing ordeal to end. It was a constant repetition of brush and hair oil, brush, hair oil and repeat. Throughout the ordeal, I remember you saying: “Ugiye mu rusengero ukeneye kwambara neza” (You going to church, so you need to look good), and “umusatsi wawe ni mwiza cyane kandi ugomba kubyitaho” (you have beautiful hair that needs looking after).Hair was a special thing between us all and if only I knew just how special it was, it would not have taken me 19 years to figure that out. This was because those warm Saturday mornings soon stopped happening and life, I guess, separated us. I was a foreign kid who didn’t quite fit in at a South African primary school; despite having the accent, speaking the language and only ever really knowing South Africa being foreign was who I was in a society so afraid of the “other”. I remember that time spent with you was the time I got to bask in all my otherness, and the time I felt most at home despite my poor attempts at speaking our native language - Kinyarwanda - and your attempts at understanding my English. In those years after our Saturday mornings ended I lost that familiar connection in an effort to fit in with all those kids whose hair wasn’t quite coiled up and skin quite so dark! I wonder what version of me I would be today if we continued on with our Saturday morning rituals and life didn’t get in the way… Beyond the hair brushing ordeal, it was now time to adorn ourselves in neatly folded and ironed dresses and You, in your vibrant patterned Imikenyero. I now realize that adorning ourselves in Igitenge and your precious Imikenyero was a way to show the world that we embraced every part of Rwandan heritage from styling our 4c thick Black Rwandan hair to dressing in our beautifully patterned materials.

To Rwandan women, Imikenyero is a very important part of our celebrations for church services, weddings and traditional ceremonial events like the Intore dance. Imikenyero - also referred to as Mushanana - is a traditional ceremonial dress that is worn by women in Uganda, Burundi and Rwanda;in Rwanda, it is referred to as Imikenyero. The attire consists of a wrapped skirt that bunches at the hips and then sashes over the arm, and is worn over a plain tank top. The fabric ranges from monotone to vibrantly multicoloured , that is lightweight and flowing, and when worn, the colours pop off the beautiful East African skin of the women.

tradition lives here.

For the women in my family and particularly You Maman, you left your home and all that you knew. To flee for safety in foreign lands, lands in which you did not speak the language. Adorning yourself in Imikenyero every Saturday and brushing out our beautiful, Black, thick hair was your way to stand boldly in Rwandan beauty traditions. If only 8-year-old me understood what it meant to carry your culture in the patterns and materials of the clothes you wore and to carry languages and connections within every strand of hair. Maybe then I wouldn’t have felt the need to assimilate so much so that at 20 years of age, I am now yearning and searching for those connections on land oceans away from Home, from You. I would not be tongue-tied when asked “Where are you from?” and having to provide an itinerary of the places I’ve been to. I would have a simple answer of: “I am from Rwanda, the Land of the Rudasumbwa-Dusabimana matriarch”, because I knew exactly what it was like carrying my culture in every strand of my hair and the words I spoke. The act of oiling our hair, brushing it out and then ironing out our dresses; for You, Maman, was your way of showing us - your granddaughters - that we needed to appreciate the beauty of our features and to remember that we come from a long line of Rwandan women who did the same - uri mwiza. And now at 20 years of age in a strange country where the warmth of those Saturday mornings are but a mere memory... I understand. Forever grateful, Celine, your granddaughter

WHEN THE MONUMENTS FALL BAYLEY ESTEVES

tradition lives here.

ROMEO LUH

On April 8, 2015, students at the University of Cape Town sent a shockwave across South Africa when the statue of Cecil Rhodes was taken down after the success of the Rhodes Must Fall movement. The movement began almost a month prior to its removal and called for the removal of this calcified representation of institutionalized racism in South Africa. Rhodes actively opposed the abolishment of slavery and is directly responsible for the exploitation of South African peoples, lands and natural resources. Knowing that he viciously disregarded the lives of numerous Africans while he colonized Zambia and Zimbabwe for the British Empire, the removal of his statue from the South African university campus was indisputable. The success of this movement continued to fuel civil rights movements in South Africa and around the world. On June 30, 2020, a statue of the former Emperor of Ethiopia Haile Selassie was destroyed in a London park during a protest on behalf of Ethiopian musician and activist Hachalu Hundessa who had recently been murdered. Hundessa actively advocated for the marginalized population of his country, especially for those within Oromia (Oromiyaa), his home region. The singer’s political assassination led to unrest throughout Ethiopia, resulting in the unfortunate loss of over 150 lives during the protests. tradition lives here.

Selassie’s 39 years as Emperor, not including the 5-year exile due to Italian invasion, came to an end when a left-wing military force overthrew him in a 1974 military coup. Selassie’s legacy is complicated, a martyr to some, an oppressor to others. Among some members of the Rastafari tradition, he is referred to as the returned messiah of the Bible, God incarnate. By destroying Selassie’s bust, protestors signified their opposition to governments willing to suppress its people. The Statue of Selassie represented the legacy of political oppression and continued political tyranny in contemporary Ethiopia. You see, a hero to some may be a villain to others. On November 16, 2020, a statue of Lord Nelson (or Vice-Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson) in Bridgetown, Barbados was removed from National Heroes’ Square with the intention of relocating it to the national museum alongside other artifacts. The statue was first erected by the British occupying Barbados in 1813 as a commemoration of their victorious Battle of Trafalgar that occurred in 1805 against the Spanish and the French. In other words, it is a monument whose purpose is to celebrate a battle that plays little cultural significance to the citizens of the island all the while normalizing the colonial power that reigned over them for centuries. As the statue was carefully being taken down by construction workers, Prime Minister Mia Mottley gave a speech emphasizing the importance of mental emancipation. Although Barbados became part of the Commonwealth in 1966 thereby ending Britain’s reign, the Prime Minister tells her citizens that, “those who went before us, ran their leg of the relay race to allow you to walk these streets free. But are you really free until your mind is liberated?” Prime Minister Mottley suggested that by placing large statues of historically impactful Bajans, it will allow history to be expressed through the eyes of Barbados’ citizens rather than through the oppressive fog of colonial history.

Each one of these monuments was erected in a different era, and for a slightly different reason. They were also taken down in slightly different ways, but for the same reason. Maybe the one common thing, is that the erectors were incapable of imagining a world where its former subjects would grow to realize their immense power and agency. The over glorification of these colonial governors, emperors, and soldiers, serve as a reminder of the harsh realities of decolonization and liberation. The act of removing the monument universally stands for the refusal to accept that colonial forces shall continue to define our present and future. The perpetuation of racism and oppression is no longer an option. By keeping these monuments in public parks or in front of government buildings, they validate and normalize the atrocities these generals, emperors and governors inflicted on human lives. These statues as well as the plaques beneath them serve as learning moments for many. The words placed on them or used to describe them are crucial and should be selected with great care. If the monuments depict colonizers and slave owners, a realistic descriptor should be placed alongside them. Whether it’s decided that certain monuments will be taken down, relocated, given an additional plaque or whatever the “solution” comes to be, it bears the weight of negotiating power, history and privilege in society. Before terms like blatant vs covert racism and microaggression became more mainstream, throughout our lives, we have long endured the damage caused by mass callousness being masqueraded as simple ignorance. The definition of racism directly expresses that its deployment against another individual is the manifestation of a power imbalance amongst those within the interaction. Removing all of the statues and monuments has been met with resistance, but regardless of what happens to them in the future, they must be recognized for the enormous role they play in the preservation of white supremacy and oppression as well as the maintenance of racial-ethnic power imbalances everywhere.

tradition lives here.

EFE OSAZUWA

tradition lives here.

A CASE FOR REPARATIONS IN THE CARIBBEAN: Does money equal justice? KADEN LASHLEY

“Fi what?” is what my dad asked when I told him France owes Haiti $21 billion. I was referring to the Independence Debt France demanded of the slaves due to the property they lost after the slave uprising in 1804 (Phillips, 2008). Haiti struggled to pay that debt, and it is the source of the country’s depressing financial state. The World Bank Group describes the island as a magnet for natural disasters, but fails to include the historical factors that make it the poorest country in our Western Hemisphere (World Bank Group, 2020), where Haitians are said to make $1.28 a day on average. This conversation about reparations in the Caribbean is nothing new. CARICOM, a group working towards a robust and inclusive Caribbean Community, has been pushing for American and European governments to hold themselves accountable its exploitative history by paying for the slavery’s emotional and physical damages. It is no secret slaves worked from sun-up until sundown, while enduring barbaric mistreatment for centuries. Many esteemed political figures, people in entertainment, and institutions the world has come to know accumulated their wealth at the expense of Black exploitation, Black appropriation, and overall, Black lives. Barbados continues to seek money from the Drax Family, whose elite status stems from inheriting the first plantation on the island, said to have been built in 1642 (Meridith, 2018). My dad goes on to say “Yuh affi, pay us back!” to people such as Mr. Drax. The current owner of the Drax plantation is British MP Richard Drax, who continues to address his disgust for his family’s role in slavery but claims no responsibility as, “it happened 400 years ago” (Lashmar et Smith, 2020). While I am glad he knows how time works, this statement has little meaning when the Caribbean countries current disparities in education, economics, and politics derive from such historical factors. CARICOM’s reparation commission has created a 10-point action plan, seeking justice for Native genocide and slavery. Some of the requests are very clear such as formal apologies, illiteracy eradication, technology transfers, and knowledge programs. The question then becomes: how do we decipher the good apologies from the bad? How do we intend to distribute the technology we receive? Will these changes affect Caribbean culture? But more importantly, is money enough to provide justice for slavery? I believe justice is about fairness on all sides. Judge me fairly, punish me fairly, and treat the victims fairly. Easy right? Reparations must be equal to the violation. When I asked myself if justice is easy when slavery is the question at hand, my answer was uncertain – it depends, honestly. I question whether current governments are remotely responsible for atrocities that occurred in the past. My cousin Dwain interjects: “Don’t forget—slavery is the foundation for the sanctioned racial, political, and economic discrimination of non-whites in the Caribbean. They know this.” I had never realized how necessary this conversation was for me. My mother reminded me that people like Richard Drax acknowledge slavery is not something to be proud of but are never willing to back that up with consequential action. In her perspective, they already have access to everything, so returning property to the Bajan people would not affect their status. Instead, it could be recreated into something that benefits the people that are still being robbed today. The legacy of slavery thrives on minuscule acknowledgments followed without action. Former French president, Francois Hollande’s thoughts about the Independence Debt in Haiti is a prime example. In 2015, during a visit to the island, the French leader claimed France is prepared to pay their moral debt to Haiti (Tharoor, 2015). I wondered if that included the financial debt they owe. It did not.

Then Britain’s debt to Jamaica and Barbados emerged in my head. My other cousin Dario says investigating how much money they owe is a difficult process. “You can’t put a price on it,” he insists. Yet we both agree acknowledgments are not enough either. In these attempts to keep Caribbean people happy, restorative justice principles let us know that apologies lose their meaning when people are aware of the harm they cause, but fail to rectify those wrongs. These conversations indicate money is not the only form of reparations to worry about. There are land, materials, and people involved. CARICOMS’ first step in their action plan mentions the need for formal apologies. My mother’s response was, “Are the disadvantaged gonna eat an apology?”

tradition lives here.

My mom is not wrong, but I also agree they are necessary. Too often, governments face us with what they call apologies, but do not amend anything. In 2007, former British Prime Minister Tony Blair announced that Britain’s participation in the slave trade was “abhorrent” and “ghastly” (Reuters, 2007). We know this. CARICOM clearly states they are no longer accepting empty words. What will it take to see real sincerity? The University of Glasgow proved themselves sincere when they paid $20 million in reparations in 2017 (Carrell, 2019). Presently, the universities have teamed up by making slavery education programs more accessible (Scott, 2020) by establishing the Glasgow-Caribbean Centre for Development Research. The distribution of material becomes another concern when my parents and cousin Dario remind me that there are the “have’s” and the “have- not’s”. There is almost no middle class. Individuals are being denied work and housing opportunities because their native communities are tied to the ever-growing gaps between the social classes (Spencer et al, 2020). My dad agrees that the wealthy people who still own plantations in the islands need to give that land to those who need it the most. Investigating direct descendants of slaves and handing them a sum of money is illogical. Not only is it a waste of valuable time, but it is almost impossible to attribute a cost to centuries or free labour and cultural contribution. Dario believes that this route only benefits those who are still unwilling to reciprocate the proper reward. It could also return to the hands of oppressors, including families who have owned slaves in the past. The land should be used to improve the lives of Caribbean people and boost economies. Medical centers, schools, and housing could replace empty acres in deprived areas. I have also realized arguments against reparations mostly lack sense and emulate apathy. As I discussed with Dario, I learned that many people back home are either ignorant of the reparations movement or simply don’t care. I believe this is a reason why the movement is not moving to its full potential. I understand and appreciate the accomplishments made so far, but I can’t help but think how the lack of national awareness affects the movement and those involved. The common question of “what does this have to do with me?” shows that the people are indifferent to those the history that has led us to this moment. Without a collection of voices, it is harder to hold oppressors accountable for previous and current actions. Aside from ignorance within the Caribbean, a common statement from other social groups and

governments states Black nations are asking for hand-outs and are unwilling to work. This argument is invalid. Caribbean culture and people have made grand global contributions. From jerk chicken recipes to soca beats found in various genres of music, it is crystalline that we are still working. Not only are these arguments meant to gaslight us into halting the movement, but it also gives way to escape accountability. I hope by the time I reach my parents’ age, I can talk to my children about the importance of restorative justice. I hope I will witness Caribbean countries reaping the benefits of reparations and governments creating better relationships with those they oppressed. Until then, there are messages I need to relay. To European government leaders who claim no responsibility for what happened centuries ago: you failed to break the cycles that stem from it. You are responsible. To leaders like Hollande who wish to pay their moral debt: reparations and financial debt to the Caribbean go hand-in-hand. Ignoring that countries like Haiti have a right to remedy puts your moral compass into question. We have to reach a better answer. Money on its own can never undo the past. Financial compensation without formal apologies or effective distribution becomes hush money. Statements of regret or apologies without impactful action are just lies. Money on its own can’t undo the past or generational trauma. We cannot compensate those whose ancestors worked on the plantations, but we can make sure that the generations reap benefits they were denied long ago.

tradition lives here.

HOW KABAKA UNCOVERED AN ALTERNATE CURRICULUM OF CONSCIOUSNESS ODOGWU IBEZIMAKO

Since I’ve been put on Kabaka’s music, I’ve been spellbound. The music is intelligent, the penmanship is sharp, the soul is alive and potent, and the music is timely. It has all the traditional Reggae components we have come to know and love. Still, there is a renewed sense of urgency, a call to action, stronger kicks and bass, and an expansive message of justice, healing, and love. This is what we talked to Kabaka about, justice, healing, and love. Our goal at TRAD is to share the ideas of African peoples from around the world. To ensure Black people connect to each other and reconnect with themselves. We discuss ideas. This is the intention I am entering this conversation with. We talk about his music because it is brilliant. Still, we also talk about the ideas behind the music, the intention, and his philosophies. The interview has been edited for brevity and clarity.

Q: Let’s start with the intro to Kontraband. On Make Way, you sing, “there is too much pollution, inside our institutions, Rastafari is our alternative solution”..you continue to talk about using renewable energy, climate change, social instability and geopolitics. You also ask us to watch the food we eat, the school and what they teach, and then you reflect on studying the principles of life and universal laws. There’s a lot to unpack here, but at its core is a call for justice and a search for the right knowledge. What lens do you see the world through?

tradition lives here.

My journey through consciousness and real self-awareness began with Rastafari and began through reggae music. And mainly through the artist called Sizzla Kalonji. His music really opened my awareness of reality. I grew up in a traditional Christian home. I went to church and was baptized. I didn’t have any strong feelings about anything too deep. I was just enjoying life, loved music, and partying. The shift towards Rastafari; that’s when I started reading books. It was really that drive to understand the real depth behind Rastafari and what it was about. Not growing up in it, I always felt I have to arm myself with as much knowledge of the culture and its message, so I can truly represent it in a genuine way. For me, that really was about Afrocentric consciousness, connecting to the continent. Seeing divinity represented in a Black person with His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie (H.I.M.) as was prophesied by Marcus Garvey. Leonard Howell spoke about His Majesty. [Even] Bob Marley, you know the whole legacy of Rastafari and the symbolic nature of H.I.M., and that kick-started my journey into an alternate curriculum of consciousness.

the I.M.F., and situations like that. So you find out that the education we receive is the education of a colony and not an independent nation. So you don’t learn about your roots, you don’t learn about your Jamaican history! You learn about “national heroes”; people like Bustamante, was considered a national hero. This was someone who slaughtered Jamaican people through the police force and is still considered a national hero. Rastafari was an uplifting education. It came out of the rising against this kind of domination and slavery mentality. That was symbolic in me as well, coming out of this system mentally and taking myself away from the system and this uptown Jamaican mentality that I was born into. This high society people feel that they are better than the large percentage of poverty in our Nation. I started to go and sit up in the ghetto and burn ganja with the people that are less fortunate than I am financial. That opened up my mind to the real reality of what was happening in Jamaica. You can grow up in certain places in Jamaica and just not know what the average Jamaican is going through. Because you are a small percentile of the reality of Jamaica. Even as a youth who is “uptown” just being a Rasta youth and having locks on my head, I can walk freely into any Ghetto and get treated with respect. Rastafari is that symbol of the freedom fighter in Jamaica. Everybody loves Rasta because Rasta represents the people. That really spoke to me. And the fact that Sizzla’s music can do that for me is all my motivation to the music because if I can do that for another soul, I have achieved something.

Q: What experiences have you had that have shaped and influenced your knowledge and ideas? What is your philosophy of learning?

Q: Was this journey a straight line? Being disillusioned with status quo Jamaica, feeling like you wanted something else, and then pursuing it. I can imagine there must have been push back from your family, from the community.

We are not really taught about certain things in school. Especially In Jamaica, being a British colony, we have so-called independence, but I consider it pseudo independence. We are still dominated by the U.K.’s imperial powers, and the U.S. through

I remember when society started to reject me. For me, my particular transition happened when I attempted to migrate. I had a couple of attempts to migrate to the U.S. The first attempt only lasted for about 9 months, and it was towards the later part of

these 9 months that I found Rastafari and twist-up my-hair and locks up my head. When I came back to Jamaica, I visited my friends at Campion, which was one of the more prestigious schools. And visiting my friends on campus, the Vice-principal told me I was banned from the school, and I can’t be on the campus. He literally told me that the views I was expressing are not in alignment with that of the school. That, for me, stood out significantly through the years. That obviously, society was not accepting it. The most disrespectful thing about it is that Jamaica gave Rastafari to the world – in terms of its culture, the expression of it, the attributes of it, the thought process towards Rastafari freedom. We have seen how this has impacted people around the world. From Zimbabwe to South Africa, and yet still, even in Jamaica, it was not appreciated. I remember when I used to smoke ganja, and you could see people looking down on me. It was almost like they feel sorry for me. You can see that on their face. I always took pride in myself as an intellectual person. I would always be conscious of how I am representing myself. I don’t feel like anything deteriorated in my character. At the same time, we were rebellious too. There’s always that vibration with the rebellious ones as well. I could definitely see when people stopped talking to us, some people didn’t want to invite us to certain parties or gatherings. What is always funny to see is, now that people see me as a public figure, and we started to grow through acknowledgement from the music, some of the people come back to establish relationships. Q: Did you ever doubt your decision?

ber my father saying he was disappointed when I locks up my hair. My mother kicked me out when she found a chalice in my house, and I flew back to Jamaica. You definitely feel the resistance. Now that my parents have come around, they see that I have made something of my life. And that love and that respect are there. Jamaica has a unique way of expressing its Christianity. The expression of Christianity in Jamaica kind of supersedes cultural expression. I think in other countries, nothing really holds back their cultural expression. If you go to Mexico with Mardigras or Brazil or Trinidad with their Carnival, cultural expression is what they put forward and how they represent regardless of any national or religious state. In Jamaica, because of the Christianity and the high society view towards Christianity, things like Reggae, Dancehall, Rastafari, ganja, all of these things are looked down upon. But this is what Jamaica is known for. This is what Jamaica is to the outside world. This is what inspires me to keep going with the music and really hits some of these nails on the head. Q: You look at all the conflicts in the world right now, racial, political, environmental. Are these the times the Rastaman has been speaking on, and what should the reason for Reggae be in these times? For me, the most powerful source behind Reggae music has been its association with Rastafari. And that is where the inspiration for singing about social injustice, and about appreciating and loving your roots, and loving Africa. That is where the root of it is coming from. For me, Rastafari is something that breaks chains and breaks bondage. And as long as there is bondage, as long as there is chains, there is a place for Reggae music.

For me personally, I didn’t doubt myself at any point, even with my diet. That same period I decided to say Rastafari is for me, I switched from beef to fish and never looked back. I have been practicing a vegan diet for about 18 years now. There was no point I was thinking this is not right for me.

But you find that it doesn’t get the appreciation that it deserves because typically, with music, it’s about the emotions that people go through. People want to feel good, people want to feel sad, they want to feel like they are in love.

It was always pressure coming externally. I remem-

But when it comes to fighting social injustice, this is

not a mood that people are always in. This is not something that the average person always thinks of. So you find that the big record labels don’t have it as a valid source of income. Barring certain exceptions with extremely potent and strategic songwriting like Bob Marley, excluding individuals like that, it’s not this type of music that has been the most successful. So you find that there is an uphill battle for Reggae music just as a genre.

tradition lives here.

I find that because Dancehall music, which is a more secular form of Jamaican culture, is at the forefront these days. And it is more representative of what Jamaica is to the outside world. So you find Sean Pauls, and the Shaggys and the Craniums, getting the number one hit songs that reach the world. Because it is not making you think too hard. So I find that this is an uphill battle for reggae music.

We don’t want music to not feel good. When you see somebody that is representing something, and they are really putting out good music, we have to support, just as we support everything else. Q: What meditations or reasonings shaped your ideas on health, and what are your health practices? When I first found out about Rastafari, the word Ital was always presented. That means everything you eat and consume is of the earth. It’s from plants, and everything you eat is from the earth, and being in tune with nature will bring about ideal health. That was the driving force. For me, I can tell you that I have felt transformations in my overall health, not needing to go to the doctor very often—[I now go to the doctor less – just for check up]. We use herbs to heal ourselves instead of drugs and pharmaceutical toxins and things like that. That has been a part of the Rastafari journey and philosophy. And then you just grow and begin to read. African Holistic Health was one of the transformative books for me very early.

I think that [Reggae] it is so important in this time, the world is literally changing in front of our eyes. And the reality is if we don’t do something like people, then the reality is these tech corporations are going to transform the world into whatever they want. It outlined a lot of the issues with the food that we eat. And not just fast foods, but also the products The music is really our weapon to use to tack- we use. Artificial lotions and shampoos and soaps le these things. Human beings need awareness; and all of these things introduce harmful minerals once we have awareness, once we arm ourselves to the bloodstream through the skin. That book rewith information, then we can organize, then we ally opened my eyes. That book gave me the way to can protest, then we can find different ways to cre- a lot of knowledge I was gaining through Rastafari. ate social change. The music, for me, is the driving A lot of books I was reading in Rastafari was more to force behind all of that. do with Ethiopia and about His Majesty, but I would learn from the elders don’t eat this or don’t eat that, You can see how the rappers are being used to but as I start to read this book, I start to understand gain votes in America, so they can forward political deeper why these things are the case. agendas and things like that. Rastafari has never been about that. We are directly about the people. You find that there are certain dietary habits in westWe never allow politicians to manipulate us. Unless ern society that are particularly harmful to Black it’s being done the way Bob Marley did it, he had people. You find that a lot of people end up getboth political parties in his hands. It has to be about ting diabetes and arthritis, and that is because it is Unity. That is the only way we will allow any political an overuse of calcium, or your body is creating acid involvement. based on the stuff you’re eating; the fried food and the heavily starched diet when we were put on this I think Reggae music is pivotal, and that is why I earth to eat fruit and green leafy vegetables. would never leave it behind. I feel like it is still the driving force for change. I just urge everyone to There is also the side that we know, where there is a support conscious music that raises awareness. systematic aim by these corporations to have a cycle Good music too. We don’t want music to be boring of decay in humans. We [eat] the food that earns

them crazy money. The same food makes you sick. You go to the doctor, the doctors prescribe the drugs, but there is no real thought of actual healing. It’s all about subduing the symptoms. But the doctors are not talking about your life choices; the doctors are not talking about your diet. So the cycle just continues, and you get sick. Q: Reggae music has always had a call for justice, but your music has increased and also emphasizes the protection of the earth. It feels, sometimes, that discussions on climate change are led by white people. But you have had incredible contributions to these conversations through your music. On Mama Earth and everywhere I go, you ask us to give the earth a try? For those who want to answer the call, what is the next thing to do? For me, even just a plant-based diet, that’s one thing. So many resources are being wasted to feed animals so they can feed humans. The amount of water that is used up just to feed the cows! There are acres of land in South Africa that are used to grow soya beans and corn to feed animals for the meat industry when this land can be used to grow [actual nutritious] food. Self-sufficiency is something we talk about in music a lot. Coming from Marcus Garvey days, where we really try and be self-sustainable. Where we have local distribution of food so we don’t need to be using all the oil and gas to be shipping from one country to the next when we can grow it ourselves. Because of I.M.F. stipulations in Jamaica, we are forced to buy food from other places when we can grow it ourselves, and this undermines the local growing industries in Jamaica. We see change is happening, though. We see electric cars coming into play. I do think that solar-powered home systems should be accessible to people, and right now, because of the cost of batteries, it is very expensive. But I feel like governments should subsidize these things because it can benefit the Nation. There should be large wind farms that prioritize getting electricity to ghetto communities. These are things that can be done simply, and I think the

government they are responsible obviously, but also the billionaires. Every country has billionaires, but what are they doing? Is their motivation just to turn profits each year and have money in their bank accounts for generations and generations? That is all well and good, but use a percentage of that to benefit the people! I do feel like the reason why white people can talk about climate change is that, as a race, they have positioned themselves in a position to be thinking about these things. The average black person on the planet is not in a position to think about climate change. And that is just the reality. There is always an economic imbal ance that has to be addressed. I’m all about starting from social-economic issues. And once we have those systems in place to create that balance, then as a human race, we can start to address these issues [climate change] head-on. I do think these initiatives have to go on, but for me, the focus is on raising the standard of living for poor people, not just Black people, but poor people all across the planet, so that we can move forward as one human race. Q: I want to stay on the topic of healing but focus on healing the connection of African peoples around the world. And let’s start with your approach to Hip-Hop and Reggae and how you seamlessly blend both genres. Was this innovation intentional? It was always intentional! When I started off in music, I wanted to sing like Sizzla, but I had no background in singing. I had no vocal ability, so I would record Reggae songs, but it just literally sounded like shit. [ At the same time] between age 10-17, seventy percent of my music consumption was Hip-Hop. I really dove deep into Hip-Hop; WuTang, Nas, Big Pun. Mob Deep, Cannabis, Talib Kweli, Most D.E.F. for me, all of these rappers were my inspiration. A lot of my early musical expression was for me to get out what I wanted to get out. HipHop and rapping was my first way to do that. I was sounding like I was from New York even though I had never lived in New York before.

From 2002 we built our first studio, and from that time, I’ve always been recording, handwriting songs, making beats, mostly keeping it to myself. I didn’t have anybody to teach me, just my friends, and we were all learning together. Hip hop was something I kind of mastered the craft over those nine years, but at the same time, my voice was developing, and my Reggae music was improving. My ability to sing and construct melody was improving.

tradition lives here.

To be frank, there is no outlet for hip-hop music in Jamaica; there is no appreciation for a Jamaican person rapping. It was always just an underground scene, with some very talented rappers and producers, but the scene hasn’t really grown over the years. For me, I knew I had to step into the reggae music scene, and it was strategic for me to stand out using my lyricisms, using the hip-hop rhyme schemes. There are certain songs I wrote to hip-hop beats and then sang them on reggae beats after. I was just doing what I was most comfortable with and bringing it to reggae music. From a production standpoint, even working with Damian on the contraband album, we have a lot of the same influences, a lot of the same journey. He talked about when he was young, and Steve them telling him, “you need more melody, you need more melody, these fast, fast rapping things no go work” he went through the same stuff, even walking on my album, you are working with someone who has the blueprint for what you have been doing. That was a great experience for me, and is till these days – I am working with him on my next album. At the end of the day, hip-hop comes from a Jamaican living in New York, and we come from Africa. At the end of the day, the vibration within music is stemming from Africa. So I am never the one saying afrobeat is stealing dancehall music or hip is stealing reggae culture because we are all cousins; we are all distant relatives like Gong and Nas told the world. I am always strategic about that looking to collaborate and make the link happen. Q: How did the link with Stonebwoy happen?

Over Twitter! I dmd him. I saw we were following each other, and I saw the progress he was making, and obviously, he was watching what I was doing. And that mutual respect was there right from the benign. So we said we need to work on a track, and we both sent each other tracks from our respective albums. And within a month from each other, we were both on each other’s albums. We are still good. I produced a rhythm for a song for his last album .. it has definitely been a pleasure working with him. Q: How can we be intentional about sharing the genres with each other in a way that increases the essence of the music? I feel sometimes we share the shell and leave the spirit. How do we make sure we are sharing both? The real way to do that is by actually linking, and reasoning, and talking, and talking about the history of the music, and that’s how you really get to know the culture, and you get to share the culture. Last year, I planned to go to Ghana and work with an organization called Habesha, building self-sustainable living quarters for ones to transitions when they are repatriating, and that is something that I am passionate about, and I would have loved the opportunity to be there last year, and I would have gone this year, but with Covid, we still don’t know, but for me. That would have been an opportunity to link up and to reason, and talk about the industry. The soul of the music is preserved by having real conversations, talking about what is happening, by sharing resources. We need to share resources across the genres. The more we can collaborate, the more we are all sharing in the reach of the music, so it is really about collaboration. It’s easy to just say send me a riddim or send me a vocal. But we need to actually talk about what is happening. Having real conversations and meaningful conversations, what are we trying to do, what are we trying to accomplish. What is the direction of the music? How can we reinvest money into these industries together? We need to talk about the big picture stuff.

Q: How do you begin to believe in yourself? What do you want to share with them about living well, and how do you begin to believe in yourself. It starts from really looking into yourself and questioning what you want out of life. A lot of us start from a disadvantage because we don’t have certain guidance from parents. One of the things that has been very empowering to me is the knowledge that; this concept that we only live one life is very limiting. What it does for me is that life is more than any one problem that we are having at the moment. It was what we take from that experience and do to build up on it. And we have been doing that for millions of years as souls evolving through different cycles and phases and different epochs. We have rich histories within our souls.

that is something we can all ask ourselves, no matter what race we are. Your name “Kabaka” means “king” in Ugandan. What does being a king mean to you? Having integrity, standing for what you believe in, defending your family, defending your Nation, and doing that with long term vision, with goals in sight that benefit the collective.

Different from attachment to any race or anything, we have divinity literally within ourselves. I think once that can start to sink in. I know that is a heavy concept for most to grasp, especially if they are in a position of self-doubt or poverty, or whatever it is. But all of these things begin in the mind. Once you define yourself as divine, then we start to see that things open up for you; no matter what the situation, you have confidence in yourself. We are at a time when any information you want you can access it, go online, learn about what is happening in the world, and once you do that, you will attract all the positive energy you would need. Q: A collaborator of yours had said that reggae music is one large endless song, and every artist contributes a verse to it. What verse are you trying to write in the song of reggae music? For me, I just want to leave a legacy of Unity. To unify our people across the globe and create that balance for all races, and my focus in doing that is uplifting my race, the black race. And for me, there is a universal goal in that. It is not a race centred goal, in that sense, but it is a means to an overall unity. For me, I try to provide people with information that they can use to uplift themselves. And for those who are not in the Black race, they can say, “am I contributing to the imbalance or the balance.” And

THE TEAM

THANK YOU AARON PARRY

BAYLEE ESTEVES

ABEERA SHAHID

CADEEM LALOR

AKILAH ADENA WALCOTT

CHIDERA UKAIRO

AMANI OMAR

CHIDINMA NWAKALOR

ANGELO GRANT

DEBORAH MEBUDE

ANTHEA TAWIAH

D.J. GOMEZ

EBBASA DUGASSA

JESSICA CARMICHAEL

EHIMA OSAZUWA

KERMEISHA WILLIAMS

EWURAMA BREW

KWASI ADU-POKU

GABRIELA ROBERTS

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HALIMA ALIYU

MIRABELLE HARRIS-EZE

ISA WUOL

NABRA BADR

THE TEAM

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OLA IDRIS ALI

NARDOS ABRAHA

REBECCA SEWARDLANGDON

NICOLE ANOZIE

RHONDA NEBIYOU

NONYE NGWABA

SARAH BROOKS

OBEHI IRABOR

SUMAYA NUR

ODOGWU IBE

SUSANNE NYAGA

TINE NDHLOVU

VANESSA HAYFORD.

UBAH GULED

UPNEET MASAUN

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YANNICK MUTOMBO

TOBI SOLEBO

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WAHI MOHAMED

THEOPHILUS A

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TEJU ABIOLA

SONIA IGBOANUGO

TANI ODUKALE

SHIRLEY SOZINHA

SYDNEY HUSSETT

SHERLYN A

SUREFIRE

SHAZA TARIQ EL-NOUR

SUN SHEIKH

SEBAT MOHAMED

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SAMEH HELMY

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SALMA

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OMOBOLANLE OLAREWAJU

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THE TEAM

NOROH DAKIM

KUMMY SALIU

MARQUISE KAMANKE

KOUBRA HAGGAR

MAKIDA YOHANNES

KAYONNE CHRISTY

LINA LASHIN

KAYLA WILLIS-SIMMONDS

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KAMINI PERSAUD

LEAH MPINGA

KADEN LASHLEY

JUMOKE ALAFE

ÌBÙKÚN

JADA CADASSE

IAN KETEKU

IRENE DUAH-KESSIE

HENNY

IMAN ABBARO

HASSAM MUNIR

IKUNNA NWOSU

ENANG UKOH

IFE AJAYI

ELIZABETH OYEGUNLE

THE TEAM

EFE OSAZUWA

DIEGO LOPES

EDNA UHUANGHO

DANIELLE RUHIGISHA

EBUKUN G. OGUNYEMI

CHIDERAH SUNNY

DONISHA PRENDERGAST

CHELSEA BODOE

DINAN ALASAD

CELINE ISIMBI

DILAYE DESTA

BRIANNA FABLE-WATSON

ASEJA DAVA

ANDREA ACOSTA

AMANDZEBA NAT BREW

ADAURE IBE

ABE OMOROGBE

NOT PICTURED ABBY MAIR

BELS DEIJANELLE CHRETIEN GAZELLE MBA JHRAMADAN MOYZA ROSA E RUSSELL MAIR SHANEILORR SIERAH MCDOWALL

FOR MAKING TRAD SEASON ONE A SUCCESS

tradition lives here.

SEASON ONE YEARBOOK

JULY 2020 - APRIL 2021 | tradmag.ca

Trad Magazine Season One Yearbook

Articles inside

COLOURBLIND HEALTHCARE Kayonne Christy

WHEN THE MONUMENTS FALL Bayley Esteves

KUNYURWA Celine Isimbi

AWAITED

WITHOUT WATER NO LIFE Sun Sheikh Hussein

TRANSPORTING MYTHOLOGY

WHEN SETTLERS DREW MAPS OF THE KATANGA REGION, THE LUBA WERE SPEAKING IN TONGUES

DINE WITH ME Ola Idris

JOY & REBELLION Akilah Walcott

THE WINECARRYING Mirabelle Harris-Eze

WHERE DOES A LOST LANGUAGE GO?

TRADITION Odogwu Ibezimako